Blessings
by Pale Treasures
Summary: A year after her wedding, Anne Wentworth still cannot believe her luck. One shot.


**Blessings**

**Disclaimer: **Nothing is mine. I am merely borrowing Jane Austen's characters.

**Rating: **K+

**Summary: **A year after her wedding, Anne Wentworth still cannot believe her luck.

* * *

Lovers ensconced in newly married felicity or deeply wrapt up in their feelings often spoke of time fleeing fast when in each other's company. She had not felt the same way, nor could she claim it now. It had been different for her, as many things in her life had. She had felt the delicious, slow dwindling of each day; she remembered every early morning and every sunset. She had felt every minute spent by his side, not in the giddy rush caused by the delight of easy rapport and feelings returned just as fully, but with slow and grateful contentment. A year after their wedding, this had still not changed. And she would have wished for nothing else.

Enduring in silence was still a skill possessed by her, and opportunity to perfect it was still required at every turn. But now it was easier to handle personal offence and oblivious disregard to anything concerning her. Being Frederick's wife at last, with nothing to stand between them, had given her the strength which had at times lacked in the past, and little Anne's birth had completed the picture of perfect harmony, teaching her a newfound joy and gratitude she had been unaware of before she came along.

Because of them, she endured all and went to bed every night with a smile and a sigh of relief and thanks for being who she was, and having the life she had. Nothing could perturb her happiness for very long. A few days ago, her sister Mary had visited her with her boys, to meet little Anne for the first time. She had listened unflinchingly as Mary proclaimed her to be 'small' and 'sickly', and how her own boys had been twice the size she was. She had wondered at a variety of things, from Anne being a quiet baby who hardly ever cried or disturbed her nurse to Captain Wentworth not being displeased that he had a daughter for a firstborn.

'How very odd, indeed! I am sure Charles would have been in a dreadfully foul mood had I not presented him with a son when I was expecting the first time!'

She had rather doubted the veracity of such a declaration, but, quietly, she had smiled and bitten her tongue.

'Indeed, my dear, you ought to harden your heart; it is very plain to see, and I am merely warning you beforehand because I have your best interests at heart. Your little girl looks quite poorly; and babies are often wont to die at this stage. It is best that you prepare yourself.'

'Anne looks quite healthy to me, and her nurse is of the same opinion; in any case, God willing, other children will follow, and I trust Frederick will not be denied the pleasure of a son one day, and you of a nephew.' Anne had replied, tranquilly.

'I would not set my hopes so sigh, Anne, given your age,' Mary had looked at her with a doubtful sort of expression, half pitying, half condescending, while her children ran and screamed around them. 'Had the whole business with Captain Wentworth not been so dreadfully difficult, you might have a dozen children already. But as it is... boys, _do_ be quiet. I have a frightful headache. Indeed, I would not have left the house at all, were I not so eager to see my niece. I always forget myself when it comes to other people, and how much good I think I will do them. I wish others would think as selflessly of me. _Boys_; I will not say it again. If you persist with such horrid behaviour, we shall return home this instant.'

Mary's visit had, however, in her own peculiar way, been the longest and most interested one. Her father had reacted to the child with indifference, at best, and Elizabeth had yet to say anything at all. But, if she had any mortified feelings, it was only on behalf of her daughter rather than herself. And, remembering the deep happiness her quiet, fulfilling existence afforded her was sufficient to erase every shadow of pain and humiliation.

To her partial mother's eyes, little Anne did not boast a single imperfection; even though she was only seven months old, she would not have wished her any different than she was. Furthermore, she believed the little girl would only improve in the future. Knowing Frederick was equally proud of their child, if not more so, only added to Anne's satisfaction.

The loving awe of her husband towards their daughter only increased her feelings of deep tenderness and respect towards him, which Anne had not thought possible before. She had not greatly worried, at the time of little Anne's birth, that she had borne him a daughter, in spite of close recollection of her father's conduct towards his own, for she knew him well enough to guess he would be delighted with the birth of his child, regardless of its sex. She had not been mistaken. To this day, she did not believe there was a more doting, a more dependable, a more besotted father; no man in the world would be willing to go as far or do as much for his child as Frederick. She felt herself to be doubly blessed, both by knowing the father of her child was such a worthy man and by being reassured that little Anne would be well-cared for in case anything happened to her.

Even now, her steps led her instinctively to the nursery—crossing the spacious, well-lit room, until she was leaning over the cot draped in pristine lace and gauzy veils, searching with a throbbing heart for the beloved little figure therein. Blood rushed to her heart with all the fierce fullness of love. Little Anne's round, large eyes stared up at her, first with wonder, then with recognition. Anne reverentially smoothed over the downy strands of dark hair from the child's warm little skull, ran a finger down her cheek and marvelled at its silkiness. _Little one! _her soul seemed to sing. _You are truly beloved._

If only Frederick were home, she knew he would share in her bliss, and the two would stand over Anne's cot, marvelling at what they had created together. At what their love had produced. It had been worth it, perhaps more than anything, to endure so very many difficulties, regrets and trials, to have their little one in the end. She brought them together, and filled them and their life with an ultimate sense of completion that they did not know was wanting before.

She was a happy woman, a fortunate woman; no one could doubt that for a minute. No one, in spite of disparaging words and belittling glances. All the sustained scorn of her family was a light and almost welcome burden to bear, because she had them. In the home she had made, surrounded by those closest to her heart, she was loved and valued, truly for the first time in her life. To taste such delight was still somewhat unfamiliar, but sweeter by the day.

She tenderly stroked the infant's cheek one last time, smiled at her nurse and left the room. Frederick had been away for the morning, and she waited with barely suppressed impatience for his return. After realising, once more, how much her life had changed and how content she was by his side, she felt that such urgent appreciation and thanks had to be conveyed at once. He might never know how thoroughly grateful she was for the greatness of his character, the extent of his selflessness and patience, in spite of the signs of displeasure and disappointment he had justly evinced in the past; he might never be aware of just how deeply and devotedly he was loved. It was something she never tired of assuring him, and after the agonising years of their separation, she felt she could never allow herself to settle and trust; it was forever her duty to show him the extent of her feelings, and beg, over and over again, for his forgiveness.

A door was closed downstairs; the sound of footsteps was heard, scarce at first but then unmistakable, in the quiet house. Anne's heart skipped a beat in exhilaration. Trying not to rush to him, she made her way downstairs to welcome him, meeting him halfway towards his study.

"My love." His face lit upon her entrance, and she could feel her own countenance responding likewise to his presence. Excellent man! Most dearly cherished husband! Would ever her tongue find words to properly express all that flurried and throbbed within? Would ever the full extent of keen feeling that encased her heart find a means of communication? Could he, would he ever know what she felt merely from gazing at him, and knowing him to be by her side, as tenderly and faithfully loving as he ever had been, even after the blow she had struck upon him?

Propriety is not friend to demonstrations of affection, and nor should it be counted upon to stifle tender feelings, simply because the moment to express them isn't deemed right. She closed the distance between them with a few quick steps and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest; her throat throbbed with a dull, tearing ache, her eyes swam.

"Anne?" he asked in a low, worried tone, softly prying her from him to assess her countenance. "What is the matter?"

She smiled at him, gently putting a hand to his cheek. Her voice was tremulous with emotion. "I will never have the words," she whispered, "to rightly convey what you mean to me—what your love, your presence, the goodness and greatness of your heart and soul have improved in my life. You _must_ know—there are no shadows, no pain, no tribulations with you by my side. I would never wish for anything else—would never dream of it—would never want anything but you. Dearest one!" her voice became more hushed still, filled with tenderness, as she caressed his face. "There can be no happier, more fortunate woman in this earth other than myself. God grant you health and strength always, and may you never undergo any change at all! It is my dearest hope that even your smallest flaws remain unaltered – they are greater than any other man's most excellent quality."

Frederick's eyes glowed with touched and fond gratitude – all in his visage was thankfulness, all in it was love. "God bless you, my darling," he whispered fervently, squeezing the hand that framed his face. "All that you say, I most ardently echo— wish upon you and towards you, tenfold. One day," he pressed his forehead against hers, "one day, I will yet be a man worthy of you."

"No," Anne countered, her voice thick with tears, "no, it is I who does not deserve you."


End file.
